


Restorative

by FlannelEpicurean



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal is a Terrible Patient, No Cannibalism, Nothing Like a Good Breakfast, Ravenstag, Sick Hannibal, Will Graham Cooks, Will takes care of Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlannelEpicurean/pseuds/FlannelEpicurean
Summary: Will takes care of a sick Hannibal. Things take a turn for the worse when Hannibal's fever spikes. But after a trying night, there's nothing like a good breakfast.





	Restorative

Will lays the back of his hand against Hannibal’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” he says. 

Hannibal’s eyes flutter open. For all their glassy sheen, they are still lucid. “Will,” he acknowledges. Neither a question nor a plea.

Will sighs through his nose, looks over his shoulder toward the bathroom. He turns back to Hannibal, opens his mouth to say something, shuts it again. Reluctantly leaves Hannibal’s bedside and strides with resolute purpose to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Paws through it impatiently, coming up with a thermometer at last. Returns to the bedroom and brandishes the thermometer at Hannibal. 

“Come on,” he instructs; “open up.”

Hannibal’s face remains placid, but Will senses a glare nonetheless. Will hands over the thermometer and lets Hannibal place it in his own mouth, tucking it under his tongue. They sit in silence. 

The thermometer beeps. Will accepts it back from Hannibal, looks down at the reading. “One oh...” his brows knit together. “One oh three.” His eyes flick back to Hannibal’s face, taking in the florid skin, the sheen of sweat, the hair plastered to his forehead. “We’ve got to cool you down.”

Hannibal sighs, eyes closed. “Will,” he says, “I will be all right.”

Will scoffs, sets the thermometer down on the bedside table. “Okay,” he pushes back, “I stayed quiet through the sniffles, and the coughing, and the wandering the house slowly turning into...” his sweeping gesture takes in the full of Hannibal’s form, tangled in the rumpled sheets, “whatever this is, but--”

Hannibal’s eyes snap open. “You stayed quiet, yes.” He squints up at Will, accusing. “But you hovered.”

“Hov...hovered?” Will splutters, affronted. 

“Yes.” Hannibal levers himself up slowly, propped on one elbow. “Just like you’re doing now.”

“I don’t--” Will begins to protest, but gives up, knowing it will do him no good. “Will you at least take a cold shower, so I can stop worrying you’ll die?”

Hannibal slowly pulls himself into a sitting position. He moves as though his joints are full of broken glass; Will opens his mouth to remark on this, but swallows the words, and steps back to let Hannibal maneuver on his own. Hannibal sits and contemplates the floor for a moment. Then, as though deciding it is trustworthy, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plants his feet. He disentangles himself from the sheets with care, peeling them away from his body. His light cotton pajamas are damp with sweat. With a long grunt he gets to his feet and begins to trudge to the shower. 

Despite his earlier denial, Will does hover. He remains close--close enough to reach out as Hannibal’s trudge becomes a stagger. He takes hold of Hannibal’s arm, steadying him, and glides forward, pressing his body against Hannibal’s back. Will rests his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder. “You’re being stoic,” he says. “And stubborn. You don’t have to be that way with me.” He shifts his stance, coming alongside Hannibal and slipping an arm around Hannibal’s waist. “Let me help you,” he insists. 

Hannibal says nothing, but the brave tension goes out of his body, and that is answer enough for Will. 

“Maybe not a shower, then,” Will says, shouldering some of Hannibal’s weight. He lets Hannibal set the pace. “Why don’t we try a bath?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “We? Are you offering to accompany me?”

Will pauses. “If that’s what you want,” he offers, surprising himself. 

A weak smile flickers across Hannibal’s haggard face as they cross into the bathing suite. “If I’m to suffer being cold and wet, I’d prefer not to suffer alone.”

Will rolls this around in his mind for a while, unsure of whether he’s being taunted, or challenged, or beseeched. Perhaps all three. He levers Hannibal down to sit on the floor next to the tub, and turns the cold tap.

Hannibal stretches out on the cool tiles, but does not give the sigh of relief he feels. He looks over at Will. “So?” he prompts. 

Will lets the cold water run over his hands. With reluctance, he turns the hot tap just a fraction, lets it take some of the bite out of the cold stream filling the tub. He hears Hannibal chuckle from his place on the floor. “I’m doing this for you,” Will protests. “I don’t want to shock your system.”

“You have my gratitude.” 

Will busies himself gathering bathing sundries--towels, washcloths, a pair of robes--as the tub fills. With all his supplies in order, he begins unbuttoning his shirt. He leans over and peers at Hannibal with concern. “Are you still awake?”

Hannibal begins the slow process of sitting up. “Still awake,” he confirms. 

Hearing the weakness in Hannibal’s voice, Will strips faster, discarding his clothing in a careless pile. Fully naked, he kneels at Hannibal’s side. “Come on,” he insists quietly, taking Hannibal’s arm. Hannibal leans on Will and rises, graceless and dizzy. He braces one hand on the edge of the tub. Will catches him before he can slide back down to the floor, and holds him in place. “Can you stand up?” Will asks, anxious.

Hannibal brings his other hand to rest on the edge of the tub as well, gets his feet more firmly planted. “I think so.” 

“Just...don’t move, okay?” Will releases his grip. When Hannibal remains upright, Will moves in, begins undoing the buttons on the front of Hannibal’s pajama shirt. 

“Will, what are you doing?” Hannibal asks. 

Will continues. “I’m undressing you.”

Hannibal brings a hand up from the edge of the tub and lays it over Will’s, stilling his fingers. “I think I can do that myself, Will.”

Will pauses. “Do you want to?”

Hannibal looks up to answer, but the shadow of a grimace passes over his face, and he grips the edge of the tub again. He takes a breath. “By all means, continue,” he allows. 

Will’s fingers become clumsy, caught between hesitation and urgency, but they manage to undo the last few buttons. Will steps to Hannibal’s side, puts an arm around his waist and lays a steadying hand on his bare chest. Hannibal leans into Will and works his way out of the shirt, letting it drop to the floor. Will unlaces the drawstring at Hannibal’s waistband and gives a gentle tug downward. Hannibal steps unsteadily out of his pajama pants as they puddle around his ankles. 

Will gets a shoulder under Hannibal’s arm and holds him upright. “Ready?” he asks. Hannibal nods. 

Will sucks in a sharp breath as he plunges a leg into the cold water. He grits his teeth and continues forward, supporting Hannibal. They slide into the water together, sloshing some over the side as they settle their limbs. Will pulls Hannibal against his chest and holds him almost possessively. Hannibal leans his head back against Will’s shoulder and sighs, exhausted. 

Will can feel the burning heat of Hannibal’s skin all the more sharply in contrast to the frigid water. The muscles at the center of his face tense, drawing his features into a frown. He reaches up and smooths the hair away from Hannibal’s forehead. “How are you feeling?” he asks. 

A long pause. “Terrible,” Hannibal finally admits. 

Will pulls a washcloth into the chilly water, wrings it lightly, and drapes it on Hannibal’s brow. Hannibal makes a tiny sound of appreciation and settles more comfortably against Will. 

Will tries not to count the minutes as the water warms by slow degrees. He tries not to fret. He can’t help but wonder whether the water has done its work. He hesitates, then leans his cheek against Hannibal’s. The skin there is still hot to the touch. Will eases his leg over Hannibal’s and pulls the plug with his foot. He waits silently, impatiently, as the tepid water drains from the tub. 

Will takes the now-warm cloth from Hannibal’s forehead and drapes it over the edge of the tub. Hannibal remains slumped against Will, unmoving. Will puts a hand to Hannibal’s chest and pays attention to the steady thump of his heart. It is slow, but strong. Satisfied, Will reaches over and pulls a towel into the empty tub. He drapes it over Hannibal and begins to gently rub him dry. 

Hannibal stirs. Will pauses his ministrations. “Hey,” he says in a near-whisper, “you still with me?”

Hannibal mumbles something indistinct; a shiver passes through his frame. 

Will sits up fully, bringing Hannibal up with him, and reaches for another towel. This he drapes around his own shoulders, for use later. “Come on,” he says, pushing Hannibal forward a bit, “let’s get you back to bed.” 

Hannibal grunts and braces his arms on the sides of the tub. Will slips out from behind him and climbs out to stand, dripping, on the floor. He reaches a hand in and helps Hannibal lever himself up slowly, murmuring encouragement the whole way. He draws Hannibal’s arm over his shoulder and half-carries him back to the bedroom. 

Will eases Hannibal down to sit on the edge of the bed, and reaches for the thermometer again as Hannibal curls up on the sheets. Hannibal accepts the thermometer without a fuss. Will waits as patiently as he can, but takes it from Hannibal’s mouth the second it beeps. His brows knit together. “One oh one,” he reads. 

“An improvement,” Hannibal murmurs. 

“Not much of one.” Will stands. “I’m running you another bath.” He starts away, but Hannibal’s hand catches his, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Will.” Hannibal opens his eyes, turns his face up. “You’re not dragging me back in there. Just sit with me.”

Will turns around, regards Hannibal for a moment. “Okay,” he says, cautious. He lets Hannibal draw him to the bed, but hesitates when Hannibal tries to tug him down to sit. “Hannibal, I’m still soaking wet,” Will protests. “At least let me put down a towel.” 

“If you must,” Hannibal allows, his voice sluggish. He shuts his eyes and lets go of Will’s hand. 

Will folds the towel in half and sets it down on the bed next to Hannibal. He sits down, his posture that of a man in a waiting room. He leans his arms on his knees, laces his fingers together. He feels the heat on his skin even before Hannibal’s hand touches his back. He turns his head. Hannibal still lies there, damp and flushed, eyes closed, but his hand slides up to rest on Will’s shoulder. 

“Lie down,” Hannibal instructs. 

“Hannibal,” Will starts to resist, but Hannibal cuts him off.

“It’s late,” Hannibal says, squeezing Will’s shoulder. “You’re tired.” 

Will balks. “I’m...I’m tired? You’re the one...You know, I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

Hannibal’s hand drops to Will’s bicep, pulls backward. “At the expense of taking care of yourself.” He inches closer to Will. “Earlier you chastised me for being stubborn.”

“I see your point,” Will cuts in. He looks over at the clock; he doesn’t sigh, but he does sag a little. He runs a hand over his face, finally noticing the tight burning in his eyes, the dull tension in his forehead and temples, the headache beginning there. He closes his eyes experimentally, and the relief it brings is almost surprising. Almost. Hannibal tugs gently at his arm again, and this time he follows, falling back against the pillows with a huff. He rubs at the ache in his forehead and closes his eyes again. Beside him, Hannibal’s breathing becomes slow and even. Will reaches over and trails the back of his hand against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal twitches lightly, but doesn’t respond otherwise. Will breathes out a sigh and pulls a rumpled sheet up over his naked body. He listens to Hannibal’s breathing, alert for any sign of distress, but he hears none. 

In the darkness of the bedroom, Will hears another sound, quiet and steady. He turns his head and peers into the gloom. A great black form with towering antlers lies there, a silhouette surrounded by shadows. It turns its head and regards Will with an eye like a glistening drop of ink. Will lies transfixed, his breath following the rise and fall of the beast’s shaggy sides. Its darkness spreads to overtake him, bringing warm oblivion. 

 

Will snaps awake hours later, bewildered and frantic, fighting against the sheets that have become tangled around his body. He braces a hand against the mattress and sits up, wiping clammy sweat out of his eyes. He looks out into the dark, searching for the great black beast, and with a shock sees it kneeling, its hide bristling with arrows. Will’s chest heaves, his heart hammering as the sound of the beast’s pain and fear beats at his ears. The sound ebbs, and Will becomes aware of a stuttering huff coming from behind him. He swivels. 

Hannibal lies curled in on himself, his body jerking with violent shivers. Will clambers over, shakes Hannibal’s shoulder. “Hannibal,” he calls, “Hannibal, can you hear me?”

“W-Will,” Hannibal stutters through chattering teeth. 

Will puts the back of his hand against Hannibal’s forehead. “Oh no,” he mutters, “no, no.” He gets an arm under Hannibal and drags him to the edge of the bed, pulls him into a sitting position. Will looks again to the black beast, sees it trying in vain to get to its feet. He wraps his arms around Hannibal and pulls him to his feet; Hannibal begins to collapse back to the bed, and Will strains to keep him upright. “Hannibal, you’ve got to help me!” Will pleads, bracing his legs against Hannibal’s dead weight. 

Hannibal struggles to keep his feet under him. Will steadies him as best he can, but it seems Hannibal misses every other step, sending them both staggering drunkenly across the room. The black beast drags itself after them, slipping in puddles of its own blood. Will holds Hannibal tight and stumbles faster.

Will manages to bring Hannibal back to the tub, but Hannibal’s eyes flit open suddenly, and he begins to fight against Will’s grip. Will curses, scrambling to keep Hannibal from falling, scrambling to keep from falling himself. He locks his arms around Hannibal’s waist and plants his feet, holding steady against Hannibal’s squirming, and when the chance presents itself, he darts his hand up across Hannibal’s chest, pinning his arm in place. Hannibal twists, trying to pull away. Will holds him easily, shocked at how weak Hannibal has become. 

“Come on,” Will implores, “calm down.” 

Hannibal continues to fight, but his movements grow more and more sluggish. His strength gives out, and he begins to slump forward, his legs shaking and folding beneath him. Will holds onto him and heaves him into the empty tub. Hannibal lies there, panting and shivering. Will looms over him for a moment, watching for an escape attempt, but Hannibal has gone limp. The black beast slumps over, oozing blood onto the tiles. Will’s fingers fumble and jerk as he rushes for the cold tap. 

The second the water begins to flow, Hannibal draws away from it and begins flailing weakly. Will pins his arms and holds him in place. “Hannibal, we have to do this,” Will says, his voice cracking. 

Hannibal arches his back, trying to break free of Will’s grasp. “I’m so cold,” he protests. 

“I know,” Will soothes. “I know you feel cold, but you’re not.” Hannibal continues to struggle as the water splashes over his feet and legs. “Your fever’s spiking,” Will says, pushing Hannibal down again. “If I don’t cool you down, you’re—” Hannibal’s knee catches him in the shoulder, and he grunts, patience wearing to a frazzle. “Fine,” he snaps. Will climbs into the tub, sits on Hannibal’s legs, leans forward and catches his thrashing arms, holds him down. 

“Cold,” Hannibal gasps, attempting to pull his legs from underneath Will. 

“I know,” Will repeats. “But you have to do this.” 

The black beast thrashes on the tiles, blood dripping from its mouth. Hannibal groans. He opens his eyes; they are bright and glassy and unfocused. “Please, Will,” he moans. The black beast lows pitifully.

“I’m sorry,” Will says. 

Hannibal jerks his head forward, teeth snapping. Will jumps back; Hannibal gets an arm free and shoves at Will. “I won’t let you do this,” he growls. The black beast struggles to its feet. 

“Hannibal, stop!” Will commands, trying to pin Hannibal’s arm down without getting bitten. 

“You can’t drown me, Will,” Hannibal raves, clawing at Will’s face.

Will pulls his face out of range and snatches at Hannibal’s hand. “I’m not trying to drown you,” he snaps, “or freeze you, or whatever you think is going on!” He finally gets Hannibal’s hand pinned to the side of the tub. “Hannibal, you’re hallucinating,” he explains. The black beast lowers its antlers, points the knife-sharp tips at Will. “Your fever’s gone too high; you’re going to start getting permanent brain damage soon if I can’t cool you down. Please,” Will entreats, “please just calm down and let me help you!”

Hannibal bucks and snarls, but in his weakened state he cannot dislodge Will. All the muscles in his body tense as he strains against his captor. The icy water continues to rise unabated. 

“Hannibal,” Will pleads, “you have to stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Hannibal’s struggling grows weaker, and before long he stills. Will keeps hold of him, wary. But the water is rising past Hannibal’s chest now. Will loosens his grip on Hannibal’s arm, but does not fully let go. When he finally does release Hannibal’s arm, it drops limply into the water. Will sags with relief and reaches behind him, shutting off the water. 

Hannibal surges forward, knocking Will back. The faucet jams into Will’s ribs, pain and exhaustion collide, and before he can stop it, his fist leaps forward, crashing against Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal’s head snaps back, hitting the tub with a resonant thud that curdles Will’s insides. 

“No,” Will whispers. He sloshes forward, frantic, cradles Hannibal’s head. Hannibal’s eyes flutter open just a fraction, and he groans. “Hannibal, I’m sorry,” Will stammers. “I’m sorry.” Hannibal’s eyes roll back. He goes limp, begins to sink into the cold water. Will panics, grabs him under the arms and holds him up, pulling Hannibal to his chest and holding him like a child. His trembling fingers probe the back of Hannibal’s head, and come away wet with water, but no blood. He takes a short, shocked breath, and then another, as relief and guilt go to war inside him. Will tucks Hannibal’s head under his chin, holds him close, and takes another breath, trying to calm himself. 

Will’s eyes dart around the room, searching for the black beast, but it has disappeared. He is alone and exhausted, wet and cold and naked and terrified. Will’s breath comes faster, in hitching gasps. Something inside him breaks and slides away, leaving him feeling all the more bare, and his gasps become crackling sobs. He presses Hannibal tight against his chest and clings, not daring to let go. Minutes tick by, marked only by the occasional drip of water from the faucet, and Will’s jagged intake of air between bouts of silent sobbing. 

Will finally sags back, spent, and pulls the plug from the drain. He waits until the water falls below his waist and slowly eases Hannibal back into a reclining position. He leans forward and pats Hannibal’s face lightly. “Hannibal?” It comes out hopeful. Hannibal’s hand twitches, and Will pulls back, wary of being attacked again. But Hannibal only opens his eyes, groggy, and stares past Will. Will turns, following his gaze, and finds the black beast lying next to the tub, head high, the arrows gone from its hide. Will moves to place a hand on Hannibal’s forehead, but hesitates; he gathers his courage and presses his lips there instead. Still too warm, but not alarmingly so. Will closes his eyes for a moment, taking in a long, slow breath. He opens his eyes as he breathes out, and looks down at Hannibal. 

Hannibal has closed his eyes again. Will eases himself up and out of the tub, sets about collecting a stack of fresh towels, retrieves the robes he had laid out hours before. He lifts Hannibal’s head and tenderly places a folded towel beneath it. With another towel, he rubs down Hannibal’s body, and takes another to dry himself. He drapes a robe over Hannibal. Pulls the second around his own body. He lies down on the tiles next to the beast, pillowing his head on another folded towel. All his strength gone, he falls into a dead sleep almost immediately. 

 

Will’s eyes flutter open in a wash of milky dawn light. 

“Will?” From the tub. 

Will sits up, stiff. Leans over the edge of the tub. Hannibal has not moved, except to lift a hand and rub at his eyes. Will’s voice comes out quiet, “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Hannibal grunts, moving limbs experimentally as he sits up. “Like I slept in a bathtub. What are we doing in here?”

Will cocks a brow. “You don’t remember?”

Hannibal rubs the back of his head, grimaces. “I remember us taking a terribly cold bath, and going to bed. Everything I remember after that has the quality of a strange dream.” 

Will licks his lips, treads carefully. “You were running a high fever. Dangerously high. I had to get you back in the bath.” 

“So it would seem.” Hannibal holds onto the edge of the tub and steps out. Will moves to lend his support, but Hannibal waves him off. Hannibal takes the robe that served as his blanket and puts it on. He turns to face Will. “I have a sense that it was a distinctly unpleasant experience for both of us.”

“That’s…” Will shakes his head, “that’s an understatement.” He pauses, draws a breath, hesitates. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

Hannibal begins to trudge back to the bedroom. “Whatever for?”

Will follows. “For...Like you said, it was distinctly unpleasant.”

Hannibal stops walking. “Will,” he says over his shoulder, “is there something you want to tell me?”

Will cringes, holds his hands up in a supplicating gesture. “I...things got a little...out of hand.”

Hannibal turns. “Out of hand?”

Will rubs at his forehead. “I may have...punched you. Last night.”

“I see.” Hannibal ponders. “Did I deserve it?”

Will looks up, aghast. “Wha—? No! You were sick, you had no idea what you were doing.”

Hannibal waits. 

“All right,” Will splutters, “so you attacked me. But still. That’s no excuse.” 

Hannibal turns from Will and continues through to the bedroom. “You’re going to beat yourself up about this,” he observes. 

“Of course I am,” Will snorts. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.” 

“Perhaps not.” Hannibal stops by the bed, contemplates it for a moment before moving on.

“Wait,” Will trots after him, “where are you going?”

“To the kitchen,” Hannibal answers. 

Will dodges in front of Hannibal. “Oh no you’re not. You’re going back to bed.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, the very picture of patience, “I haven’t eaten anything but soup for over a week. And I’ve been in bed for days. I’m ready for something different.” 

Will stands his ground. “At least let me do the cooking.” 

Hannibal considers. “All right,” he agrees.

Will stands aside and allows Hannibal to pass, then follows him down to the kitchen. 

 

Will goes about his preparations meticulously. He grinds dark, rich coffee beans and pours the grounds into a cafetière, then puts the kettle on to boil. He fills a small saucepan with water and sets it on the stove, turns the heat on under it. Retrieves a loaf of homemade bread, cuts four even slices, each as thick as his little finger, places them in the toaster oven and sets the timer. Sneaks glances at the water in between gathering up fresh strawberries, figs, and pears. He piles the fruit in a strainer in the sink and runs water over the mound of produce. Lifts each piece in his hands and rolls it through the stream, rubbing with palms and fingertips, then pats it dry and places it on the cutting board. 

Will’s eyes flit to the saucepan; small bubbles have begun to form at the bottom. He leaves the fruit on the cutting board and turns to retrieve a pair of eggs from the refrigerator. He brings them over to the counter next to the stove, where he has arranged his tools--a small metal measuring cup and a slotted spoon. He reduces the heat under the saucepan and lets the water simmer gently. Takes up one egg, brown and perfect and lightly chilly to the touch, and cracks it into the measuring cup. Lets the cup hover over the steaming surface of the water for a second, and with slow, deliberate motion, tips the glistening egg in. 

The golden yolk sinks, the diaphanous white blooming around it. Will takes up the slotted spoon and eases it into the water, begins shepherding loose tendrils of white back toward the center of the egg. He makes small, slow motions, pushing the water rather than the egg itself, coaxing the white to adhere to the stable center mass. He continues until he has the egg folded into a tender globule, the brightness of the yolk barely showing through the thin layer of white enveloping it, and leaves it to simmer. 

The kettle begins to whistle; Will turns off the heat under it and lifts it past the saucepan, bringing it over to the cafetière. The sharp aroma of the coffee rides the plume of steam that rises as he pours. He breathes it in, lets it sharpen his senses.

Will returns to the cutting board, taking up a paring knife, and deftly slices the caps from the strawberries. He drinks in their sun-bright scent as the juice trapped between the vivid interior and the crimson skin drips red from the blade. He slices each berry in half, then takes a bowl from the cabinet and scoops the berries into it. 

Will brings his attention back to the egg. He lays out a napkin on the counter next to the stove and peeks into the saucepan. Eases the slotted spoon back into the water and lifts the egg out, sliding it carefully onto the napkin. Folds a corner of the napkin over the egg and lets the soft fabric absorb the traces of moisture from the egg’s surface. Slips the spoon under the egg again, and transfers it to a waiting plate. Then he cracks the second egg into the measuring cup and begins the process again. 

As the second egg begins to cook, Will recovers the paring knife and presses it to the red-brown skin of a pear until the blade bites in. He turns the fruit slowly, pulling the blade along, stripping away the ruddy peel and revealing the creamy interior. Laying the naked pear on the cutting board, Will presses the sharp edge of a chef's knife into the fruit's flesh, slicing it in half. He traps the stem between his thumb and the flat of the blade and peels it away. Will cradles the round bottom of the pear in one hand and takes up a melon baller in the other; this he presses into the flesh around the compact core. With a deft twist, the core comes free. He cores the other half of the pear, then lays them both face-down on the cutting board, and takes up the chef’s knife again. Pulling the blade horizontally through the pear halves, he creates slices just thick enough to be opaque in the rose-gold morning light. 

Will comes back to the stove, turns off the heat under the saucepan. He lifts the second egg onto the napkin, gently pats it dry, and adds it to the plate with its mate. Returning to the cutting board, he runs the knife through a wine-dark fig, exposing the ruddy pulp inside. The toaster oven gives a cheery chime; Will takes a plate from the cabinet and pulls the tawny slices onto it, then sets it down next to the plate of eggs. He turns again to the cutting board and halves the rest of the figs. 

He watches for a moment as Hannibal begins arranging place settings, but Hannibal’s hands are steady, his movements sure, so Will turns his attention back to preparing the food. 

With all the fruit neatly cut, Will pulls out a wooden serving platter. He retrieves cheeses from the refrigerator--a block of Havarti and a wedge of brie. These he places in the center of the serving platter; he piles the strawberries against one side and the figs against the other, then fans the pear slices around the edge of the platter. 

Hannibal brings over two plates and takes charge of the coffee. Will places toast on each plate, then uses the slotted spoon to slip each egg onto a golden slice. Taking up the platter of fruit and cheese, he follows Hannibal to the table. Will sets the platter down and looks over the spread he’s prepared. “It’s not as artful as what you usually do,” he says, bashful, “but it’s breakfast.” 

Hannibal’s hand alights on Will’s wrist. “It’s beautiful, Will,” Hannibal says. “Let’s enjoy it.” He gestures to Will’s empty cup. “Coffee?”

Will hands over the cup. “Please.”

Hannibal pours coffee for both of them, and serves himself from the platter. Will waits for Hannibal to take the first bite before digging into his own breakfast. He is far hungrier than he realized; he tries to maintain the same easy grace he sees in Hannibal, rather than wolfing down his food. He slows down, pauses to enjoy each bite, and is able to maintain some poise. Still, he finishes before Hannibal does, and finds himself gazing across the table, watching Hannibal eat. Hannibal takes small, measured bites, chews thoughtfully, savoring every flavor and aroma. He continues, unperturbed by Will’s attention, until his plate is empty. 

“Do you want me to make you anything else?” Will ventures. 

Hannibal looks up at Will with a tired smile. “No, I’m quite satisfied,” he says. “That was delicious, Will, thank you.” 

Will stands and begins to gather up the dishes. “It’s the least I could do.” 

Hannibal pours himself another cup of coffee. “You’ve done quite a lot for me, Will. Don’t minimize that.” 

Will doesn’t answer, busying himself with the dishes instead. Hannibal appears at his elbow with another cup of coffee and leans against the counter. Will keeps his eyes on the sink. “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

Hannibal considers. “What I want most now is a long, hot shower.” He sips coffee. “Would you like to join me?”

The corner of Will’s mouth jerks into a half-smile. “After last night, I think it might be a while before I’m ready to do any more bathing with you.” He finally looks at Hannibal. “I’m surprised you would offer, considering.” 

“Well, with my faculties restored, it would likely be a much more pleasant experience.”

Will dries his hands and gives Hannibal a tired smile. “I think I’m gonna have to pass, still.” 

Hannibal nods and finishes his coffee. Will accepts the empty cup from him, washes it with care and sets it to dry. Gathers up the remainder of the fruit and cheese and returns it to the refrigerator. Follows Hannibal out of the kitchen.

The sounds of the shower waft out of the bathing suite. The hissing of the showerhead. The whisper of hot droplets hitting the tiles. The splatter and splash of sheets of water pouring from Hannibal’s body as he performs his ablutions. Will finds himself comforted by these sounds, and calmed by the work of changing the bed linens. He removes the duvet and folds it, places it at the foot of the bed. Strips the cases from the pillows, pulls up the sweat-stained rumple of sheets, takes them all straight to the laundry. He brings back fresh sheets, pillows, pillow cases, and duvet cover from the linen closet. Will tucks the fitted sheet onto the mattress, smooths out its surface. Wafts the flat sheet over the bed, spreads it evenly. Pulls cases onto the pillows and arranges them at the head of the bed. Wrestles the duvet into the fresh cover, bundles it onto the bed and runs his hands over the full of it, getting rid of any rumples or lumps. He takes the old duvet cover to the laundry and leaves it with the sheets, resolving to do something about all of them when he is less exhausted. 

Will returns to the bedroom to find that the shower sounds have stopped. He waits almost nervously by the foot of the bed, his hand and forearm wrapping around the post there. The door to the bathing suite glides open, and Hannibal emerges, wrapped in a towel. The warm light pouring through the windows gilds his body, glimmers the droplets of moisture still clinging to his skin, renders him otherworldly. Will’s breath catches. 

“You look...” Will stammers, “better.” He shifts his weight. “How do you feel?”

Hannibal unwinds the towel from around his waist and runs it over his hair. “Tired, mostly,” he admits. His eyes drift to the bed, and he turns a serene smile on Will. “I see you’ve been busy.”

Will shrugs. “Thought you might want—” He stops short, returns Hannibal’s smile. “Never mind.”

They stand for a moment, both tired enough to be a bit giddy, trading glazed-over gazes. Will breaks the contact, rubbing his hands down his face. He makes a sound that is half amused and half exasperated. “I’ve got to get some sleep,” he says, almost apologetic. “Some real sleep. And so do you.”

Hannibal turns down the edge of the covers and sits on the bed. “I won’t argue with you.” He slips in between the sheets and slides over. “Are you coming?” he asks. 

Will looks over his shoulder at the door, then back to Hannibal. “I was going to,” he gestures vaguely, trails off. Hannibal’s brows lift quizzically over a teasing half-smile. Will sighs, defeated. Shrugs out of his robe, drapes it over a chair. Sits on the bed next to Hannibal, draws his legs beneath the covers, and slowly lies down. 

The feeling of fresh, clean sheets on his naked skin draws a languid vocalization from him, a chest-deep, falling note of pure bliss. Next to him, Hannibal chuckles. Will surrenders to the feeling of the pillows cradling his head and neck, the mattress embracing his body. The tension drains out of him, leaving behind a weighty fatigue that sinks him deeper into the bed. He rubs his forehead slowly and turns to look at Hannibal. Hannibal lies on his side, eyes closed, one arm folded beneath his pillow. Will reaches over and smooths a stray lock of hair at Hannibal’s temple. Hannibal moves closer, snakes an arm over Will’s chest. A shaft of golden light creeps its way to the bed, falling on them both. 

Will looks to the window. “Should I close the curtains?”

“No,” Hannibal murmurs, “let them stay open. Unless it will keep you awake.” 

Will reaches up and laces his fingers through Hannibal’s. “Nothing is going to keep me awake at this point.” 

“Hm,” Hannibal agrees, already fading. 

As the sunlight goes from gold to brilliance, Will finds himself drifting. There is no dream-beast this time; only the blessed, restful quiet of a peaceful house, and Hannibal’s slow, even breathing beside him.


End file.
